Just a Little Friendly Competition
by sheydatal
Summary: When Draco Malfoy offers to help Hermione Granger with her business, she reluctantly accepts—little does she know of his devious, vengeful plans for her.
1. Chapter 1

Hermione Granger stood in the midst of Diagon Alley, scowling. She craned her neck painfully and squinted, getting a view of the new and irritatingly large building that towered above her. The building in itself was quite simple: its face a shiny metallic black, its shape plain and rectangular. It seemed to stretch for miles into the clear sky. There was no sign, no name, no title on the building.

But if one looked closely enough, stepped a few feet forward, they would see it, clear as day: the Malfoy family crest.

It taunted her from its location on the large, eloquent doors of the building's entrance. Its mere presence deepened her scowl.

It had taken several weeks to build, even at the hands of skilled wizards and witches, and finally appeared about ready for business. She had heard fleeting whispers, constant rumors circulating about the new Malfoy office location, which irritated Hermione to no end. She'd chosen to brush said rumors off, cross her fingers, and pray to Merlin the gossip was just gossip.

Clearly, Merlin was against her today.

She glanced to her left, to the infinitely smaller building neighboring Malfoy's, and felt her lips turn into a slight frown. This building looked pathetic contrasting to the immaculate and modern one beside it—it was terribly short and stout, its coloring old and peeling, the weakening frame looking mere seconds from deteriorating. Its name, once bold and gallant, now dismally displayed the title of her very own business: S.P.E.W.

Hermione sighed, allowing herself a second of self-pity at the sad sight. It wasn't as if she _wanted _her business to deteriorate before her very own eyes as she stood idly by. It was just that—unfortunately, for the time being—business wasn't going so well. Her time, energy, and money was spent directed at mistreated house elves and other impoverished magical beings, and the superficiality of the outward _appearance _of her business was the last item on her list of things to care about.

She still remained self-conscious of it, at the very least, and the sudden appearance of Malfoy's new business location—quite literally _right_ beside hers—tripled that feeling ten-fold. As if she didn't already have enough reason to loathe the man.

It had been six years since the war, six years since the fall of Voldemort and those who followed him. Six years since the death of Malfoy's parents. Six years since their only son proclaimed neutrality, getting off scotch-free as an unfortunate bystander to a myriad of horrendous crimes.

Hermione scoffed to herself. Right. _Bystander._

Somehow, someway, Malfoy had managed to convince the Wizarding society of his repentance and began clearing his name, which had been dragged through the mud for so long she was sure he'd never stand a chance. But he had worked, year after year and without fail, on creating his own successful line of businesses that eventually spread across Wizarding communities throughout Northern and Western Europe. It appeared he had saved the best location for last: magical London.

How Draco Malfoy had managed to usurp her over the years, she had no idea. And at such a young age, too. Because of what, a bunch of bloody little _buildings? _Okay, fine, they weren't exactly _little. _And she wasn't even sure what he did exactly, nor did she care to find out.

Regardless, it made her blood boil in the most retched way, and the tiniest hint of jealousy at his success seemed to surface from behind the thin veil of irritation. Hermione pushed it aside. No need to be jealous of the likes of _him._ At least she had upheld her morals, worked hard for a worthy cause, and didn't resort to a scummy, slimy corporal business in order to make a living for herself.

Deciding she had spent enough time fuming over a stupid building, and gaining strange looks from wizards and witches that passed around her, she huffed and finally stalked over to her own place of business. His first official day here and he had her quite riled up already, and she hadn't even _seen _him yet.

Hermione found herself praying to Merlin once more that it would remain that way.

But, in a dreadful state of foreboding, she sensed her prayers were futile.

* * *

"Quite an interesting location for your new division."

Draco Malfoy stood facing south wall of his office, elegant hands tucked away into the pockets of his crisp black trousers. The wall, made completely of thick glass, overlooked the bustling herds of shoppers below. He stared down at them from the highest floor of the building.

"Last time I checked, Blaise, Diagon Alley was far from interesting," Draco drawled impassively, not bothering to turn around and face the intruder.

Draco could practically feel Zabini rolling his eyes. "You know what I mean."

Draco turned then, hands still in his pockets, his expression unreadable as he glared at his fellow Slytherin. "No. I'm not quite sure I do."

Blaise's dark eyes assessed Draco, quite accustomed to his detached demeanor. A decade of friendship—if one could even call it that—did that to you. "I saw her today," Blaise continued without preamble.

"Saw whom, may I ask?" Draco drawled once more, managing to somehow sound bored with their conversation.

"Oh, come off it, will you?" Blaise snapped impatiently. "She was standing right outside, practically staring daggers at the place. But you knew that already, didn't you?"

Draco's expressionless mask slowly transformed into his signature smirk. He didn't respond, turning towards the window once more. Blaise frowned at his back.

"Hurting her won't help, you know," he tried wearily. He hesitated at his next statement. "It won't bring them back."

Blaise noticed Draco stiffen just slightly, but chose to ignore the several passing moments of heavy tension. "I've got work to do, Blaise," he replied eventually, his cold exterior appearing once more.

Blaise knew he was dismissed.


	2. Chapter 2

Hermione hit her head against her desk repeatedly, groaning into the thick blankets of parchment and quills scattered across its surface. Ginny, who was visiting Hermione on her lunch break at work, chuckled from her seat across the desk. Sipping her tea casually, she shook her head in amusement at Hermione's childish fit.

"Ginny-y-y," Hermione whined, propping up her elbows and threading her fingers into her thick mess of hair. "Why is this happening to me?"

"Oh, stop it with the dramatics," Ginny said in a scolding voice that all but rivaled Molly's. "You knew this was a possibility for weeks now. There's a good chance you'll never see him, anyways. Hasn't he got, like, a million other locations all over the bloody country, or something?"

"But if I do see him?" Hermione pressed.

"Since when are you so scared of Malfoy?" Ginny raised her eyebrows accusingly.

"I'm not _scared _of him!" Hermione exclaimed, offended. "It's just that, after everything's that's happened, with his parents and—"

"None of which was your fault," Ginny interrupted, her voice a bit softer this time. "And besides, it's been years_,_ Hermione. He's all but left us alone since, and he's obviously quite successful now, so I'm sure he's probably even forgotten about it—"

"Forgotten about the death of his _parents_, Gin?" Hermione stared at her friend incredulously. "I doubt it." She attempted to run a hand through her tangled curls and failed, her exhaustion suddenly falling on her all at once. She suppressed a sigh.

Ginny frowned at her, concern tainting her pretty features. Hermione found herself wishing she had put just a smidgen of cover-up to hide the dark purple crescents that were forming beneath her eyes, in order to spare her friend of worry. "How have you been though? Really?"

Hermione waved her hand dismissively. "I'll be fine. You know how work has been lately."

"You've got to give yourself a break every once in a while, you know. You've been working too hard. Besides, you're long overdue for a visit."

Hermione smiled at this. "How about you, though? How is Harry doing?" she asked meekly.

"I'm doing well." Ginny smiled serenely. "And Harry—you know how he gets with his Auror stuff. He absolutely loves it. A little too much, I'd say."

Hermione laughed, genuinely warmed at the happy news of her best friends. Nothing in the world could lift her spirits like they could, and just one visit from Ginny had reminded her of that. She was ashamed of herself for allowing her work to take up so much of free time, and vowed silently to herself she'd start visiting them more often and _soon. _Ginny was right, a break was much needed.

* * *

Ginny's visit at lunch had brightened her mood significantly, and Hermione left her office later that day feeling infinitely better than when she had entered that morning. All she had left on her agenda today was a quick trip down to Gringotts to withdraw a small bit of her already dwindling account for an upcoming S.P.E.W. project. The thought of her pajamas, a good book, and possibly a large cup of wine waiting for her at home made her speed along.

She stepped foot inside the bank only to want to speed right back out again.

The moment she entered, she spotted him: the one and only Draco Malfoy, in apparent deep conversation with a goblin, his body half-turned towards her. Hermione stopped and openly stared at him in shock, his bright blond, almost-silver hair hard to miss under the glimmering chandeliers in Gringotts. Excluding the photos of him that constantly littered _The Daily Prophet_ and even _Witch Weekly_, it had been so long since she'd last seen him face-to-face.

She quietly observed him from the short distance, and noted irritably his typically impeccable appearance. His hair, which he'd stopped slicking back and cut to a shorter length years ago, was now slightly tussled. He looked fit beneath his perfectly tailored and expensive black suit. Clearly he had grown up; even his once pointed face had turned out to be structurally appealing. How was that even possible?

Hermione needed to think and think fast: either she sucked up her pride and continued on with her errand without bothering to acknowledge his presence, or she run. And run fast.

Malfoy, as if suddenly feeling prying eyes on him, coolly glanced up.

Shit. Hopefully he hadn't seen her.

To hell with pride. Six years sans confrontation with the slimy git, there was no way in Merlin's name she was about to start now. Vigilantly and _embarrassingly_ aware of his presence in the grand bank, Hermione made a dash—a graceful one, mind you—for the front doors.

She was close now, just a few feet. _Ha! _Maybe he hadn't noticed her after all. Maybe he—

"Well, well, well."

Hermione stopped dead in her tracks at the sound of that voice—that arrogant, aristocratic voice she could recognize anywhere. She grimaced, eyes clenched tight, embarrassment coursing through her at being caught trying to scurry away from him like a little mouse. She couldn't very well run now. Heart pounding, she turned on her heel to face the devil himself.

"Running away now, are we, Granger?" Malfoy sneered, his familiar icy gaze scrutinizing her. "What happened to Gryffindor bravery?"

Hermione huffed indignantly, feeling her cheeks warm. Six years later and he still had this effect on her. And why did he have to look so—so—well put-together? Hermione resisted to the urge to glance down at her tattered old clothes and compare them to his sharp black ones. _Damn him._

"Still quite a bit more bravery than you'll ever have, Malfoy," she retorted haughtily instead, nose practically in the air.

Hermione didn't miss his small answering smirk. "Fair enough," he replied evenly. She raised her eyebrows at him momentarily, disconcerted by his deceptively calm reaction. Unsure of how to respond and slightly alarmed at the evil glint in his eye, she turned to leave, hoping by some miracle that he would let her.

"I see you've started up on your own business there, Granger," Malfoy continued on coolly, ignoring her second attempt at escape.

Right. This was Malfoy we were talking about here. There was no way he'd be letting her off easy.

"Yes, and…?" Hermione said crossly, folding her arms across her chest, silently daring him to insult her pride and joy.

The moment it reappeared, Hermione thought about slapping that smirk right back off his face like she had all those years ago.

"We're neighbors now, you know," he replied softly, taking soft, deliberate steps towards her petite frame. Wait… when had he gotten so _tall_? Hermione was suddenly reminded of a deadly predator, stalking towards its unsuspecting prey. She instantly fought the urge to back away from his approaching form. "I'm afraid we'll be seeing a lot more of each other now."

"Rather unfortunate, really," Hermione muttered under her breath.

He was getting close now, too close. She could smell his cologne, the alluring aroma overwhelming her senses and flustering her momentarily. There was no way she was going to be made out to be a coward again, so Hermione kept her feet planted on the ground, ignoring her sudden fight-or-flight sensation kicking into overdrive.

That was strange; she had always known him to be a conceited and arrogant prick, but he was never... dangerous_,_ was he?

Her eyes flickered to her surroundings, to the goblins spread across the bank, clearly paying them no mind. Surely he wouldn't attack her in broad daylight, in the middle of Gringotts?

"I…" Hermione trailed, thrown off when she glanced back up at him again. He was just inches away now. She was staring directly into his molten gray eyes. They were dark, sinister clouds on the brink of a rainstorm, staring intently into her own brown eyes. "But why are you here now, after all this time? What about your other offices?" Hermione found herself stupidly blurting out, almost trance-like, transfixed by gaze.

"Been keeping tabs on me, have you?" he murmured. This time, his smirk was slow and devious. She felt like she couldn't move, her jaw slackening and her pulse tripling.

"What—"

And just as quickly as he had appeared, he pulled away, taking his distracting scent and disturbingly mesmerizing eyes with him.

Hermione blinked. Then blinked again.

He appeared pleased with the effect he'd had on her, as if it had been his plan all along. His smug satisfaction was subtle, but it was there. "I'll be seeing you around, Granger," he said suddenly. He made his way towards the doors, brushing past her shoulder lightly as he did.

"I'll make sure of it," she jumped slightly at the sound of his silky voice breathing into her ear from behind. She felt him snicker against her before sliding his hands into his pockets and exiting nonchalantly, as if he had not a care in the world.

And that was how he left her after their first encounter in years: standing alone, in the middle of Gringotts, mouth agape, like a dumbstruck fool.


	3. Chapter 3

Draco knew it would be easy, but he hadn't known it would be _that _easy. Deriding Granger came so naturally to him it was almost as if he had never stopped. He heartily drank in her pure panic at his presence, and his sadistic side simply couldn't wait to go back for more.

Besides, the look on Granger's face had been priceless: it was the perfect combination of annoyance, astonishment, and even the smallest hint of fear. Draco had learned to smell fear from miles away.

Good. At least she had the decency to be scared of him, like she rightfully should be.

While his encounter with Granger had been predictably enjoyable, Draco thought as he sauntered back into his office early that next morning, it was time to get down to business—mind the pun. He had a plan, and if the direction of their meeting had any indication of how said plans would go, Draco knew he was right on track.

He suspected Granger's mental state was becoming increasingly less stable; considering that daft S.P.E.W. business of hers was nearly down the toilet, he hadn't excepted otherwise.

It was rather funny, actually: he'd accused of Granger of keeping tabs on him, but in reality he'd been the one tracking her for quite some time now. It was all part of the grand scheme of things.

Immediately following the end of the Second Wizarding War, each and every remaining Death Eater was rounded up and brought to trial before the Wizengamot. Despite the fall of Voldemort and the chances of him returning being reduced to absolute nil, the Wizengamot remained infuriatingly and infinitely wary. What were they to do with the remaining Death Eaters, the flanks and most trusted servants of the Dark Lord himself? Would they attempt to reconcile, retaliate, and years or decades or centuries later return with the same inbred beliefs and a new worshiped Lord?

They deemed Azkaban Prison too risky for Voldemort's highest servants, fearing a repeat performance of past breakouts. They deemed the Dementor's Kiss too insufficient to reprimand the lives lost at the very hands of their callousness and brutality.

The Wizengamot, typically shoddy at best, shocked the Wizarding World when they announced—for the first time in Wizarding history—executions would be carried out.

Half of the Wizarding public had been distraught, crying out protests of inhumanity and hypocritical cruelty. The rest remained impassive, not particularly desiring the willful killing of others, but fearing for the safety of themselves and their children and their forthcoming generations too much to protest.

The high-profile Death Eaters, those deemed most dangerous and most likely to carry on Voldemort's prolific destiny, were the first to be sentenced to immediate executions. Those who were seen as less dangerous, but still problematic, ended up being given lifelong sentences to Azkaban, not wanting to push their already stretched limits with excessive amounts of executions. The Wizengamot, fearing retribution for their brash course of action, claimed they had already given them all second chances to freedom after the First Wizarding War—and look where that landed them. They claimed they would not let the Wizarding World suffer a thrice time.

Of course, Draco had attended every single moment of the prolonged trials, lasting nine days in total. He had physically witnessed his parents, his very own flesh and blood, his true remaining family, face their horrendous fates. He had watched as his mother sobbed into her hands as his father, one of his very last acts, reaching to comfort her, wrapping his arms around her silently.

They were to be executed on the tenth day. It was with sheer luck that Draco didn't face the same outcome.

Naturally, Narcissa had done everything in her power to assure Draco's safety. Softer and harsher Death Eaters alike vigorously disputed the Wizengamot to leave their innocent children alone. A great lot of the Death Eaters' children had been underage or had just turned the tender age of seventeen, and even the rest of the Wizarding public knew the Wizengamot was in a bind—they were not insensitive enough to send children to their deaths.

The sons and daughters of Death Eaters, if not having a firsthand account in brutal or malicious crimes—killing, torturing, etcetera, etcetera—were questioned separately for a short three hours only to be unexpectedly set free. Of course, Aurors would be keeping a mindful eye on them day in and day out for two years to come. Draco would learn later they'd borrowed that practice from Muggles, a form of probation, as they would call it.

Draco did not like to think back to the day in which his mother and father were killed in almost cold murder. It was a memory that was stored within boxes within safes within vaults in the deepest parts of his mind, locked away with dozens of keys, not even to be returned to on rainy days.

Instead, he'd learned to suppress and shut out those terribly nagging feelings, feelings of pain and despair at the loss of his loved ones before his very eyes.

Instead, he'd learned to focus on a new feeling: revenge.

They had been there, at the trials. The bloody _Golden Trio. _The mere thought of them still brought about familiar notions of disgust and ill-disguised temper. Draco witnessed them correspond directly with the Wizengamot. Draco watched helplessly from the sidelines as they poured out stories, evidence, testimonies—all vying for the end of the Death Eaters that had supposedly tortured theirs and many other lives for too long.

Being Potter, the savior of all good and sunshine and daisies, the destroyer of evil himself, was—not surprisingly—treated like a king at those trials. They took his word as if it were the words of Merlin himself. They were obviously very heavily swayed by him, and acted out on his beliefs as if he wasn't just an annoying seventeen-year-old child like the rest of them. No matter what Potter said, Weasley backed up his claims wholeheartedly, like the brainless follower he always was.

Granger was different.

Instead of participating avidly in the offhanded, casual discussions about future murders, she remained unusually quiet, looking rather hesitant and off-put throughout the ongoing trials. On several accounts, Draco watched as her mouth would part slightly, uncertainty etched into her features, looking as if she was seconds from speaking out, but each time… she would just stop. Her mouth would suddenly snap shut, her eyes downcast, hands folded timidly in her lap. She looked positively defeated, fighting an internal battle of whether to stop the brutality or remain silent.

This, in the end, was what had angered Draco the most.

Wasn't it _Granger _who was supposed to be the sane, smart one? Blasted—he fucking _knew _she was intelligent, no matter how much he hated admitting it to himself. He _knew _she was the more level-headed of the three, the more rational, the most _allegedly_ kind-hearted—but why the _fuck_ wasn't she saying something? Years and years and bloody _years_ of throwing up her hand in class day after day, shouting out her unnecessary and ridiculous opinions, and she chose _now _to shut her mouth and allow the clear atrocities to pass by under her nose without a word?

Draco had found himself constantly wanting to shout at her, scream at her throughout the trails—_say_ _something, Granger_, _anything. Save them. Damn it, Granger, save them!_

But she never did.

Draco wasn't sure why he felt Granger, who was just one girl, had been his last lifeline in keeping his parents alive, but for some bloody reason he'd put stock in her. He'd inadvertently hoped her farfetched moral compass would save them, save them all.

This was a clear miscalculation on his part.

In Draco's eyes, this was far worse than Potter and Weasley's mindless behavior. They simply were too stupid to realize the true consequences of their actions, what would be happening practically under their hand. Granger, however, was not stupid. She knew. She knew, and she didn't fucking _do _anything_._

These arguments had been running through Draco's head like freight trains for six years. Six whole years this tortured him to no end. The more he thought about Granger, the more possessed he became. The more angry he became.

Of course he knew it wasn't wholly, completely, and one-hundred-percent her fault his parents had died on that tenth day. Of course he fucking knew.

But ultimately, realistically—who else could he aim all this terrible pent-up energy at? Who else could he aim his rage and vengeful fantasies at, a bunch of fifty-plus middle-aged idiots in the Wizengamot he would never even know the names of? Potter and Weasley were clear options, but something about Granger's demeanor and vulnerability daunted him. Consumed him. Unfortunate for Granger, he had already set his ill-intentions out her and she was none-the-wiser. She was his easiest target.

Blaise, who spent a bit of time around him, however, would occasionally remind him of his growing, sick obsession with the girl. But there was nothing he could say to stop it, nothing he could do to put an end to Draco's rampant and harmful thoughts.

It would be easier than Draco had expected to pretend to brush the death of his parents under the rug. It was even easier to pretend to pick up his life as a well-meaning, well-functioning member of Wizarding society once the dust had settled. It was easiest to fool those idiots into believing he'd actually _changed_.

While it only happened in tiny, miniscule increments, _way_ too dramatically for Draco's taste, the Wizarding society slowly but surely began to put Voldemort onto the back-burners of their minds. They continued on with their lives with maddeningly optimistic dreams, settling into mediocre jobs and starting families and all that other happy-ending bullshit he despised.

Hoping to keep up with his new do-gooder pretenses and get those pesky, prying probation Aurors off his bloody back once and for all, he'd decided right before he hit the age of twenty to follow in his father's leadership footsteps and start creating the line of Malfoy family businesses.

Surprisingly, Draco's very own outcome hadn't been terrible—he'd really hit it off with the whole business thing. He was _good_ at it—good at the marketing, the manipulating, the money—he was good at all of it. He was growing older, wiser, better at the game; he let the Wizarding society grow accustomed to the Malfoy name once more, this time in a positive light. He appeared in local papers, in the _Prophet,_ in countless other interviews, and word of his success traveled far, even crossing to international lands.

Soon enough, Draco's pleasant, smiling face was everywhere: business meetings, lunches, fancy dinners, conventions, events—they all knew him, knew his name for _his _contributions to society and not for the Malfoy's association with now-dead Dark Lord.

Whether purposely or subconsciously, he'd placed his primary office locations strategically around England's neighboring countries and they ultimately spread like wildfire. He wanted to assure his name was established. He wanted to be trusted. Then, when all offices had been built, when they learned to love him, and when the Wizengamot had all but forgotten about him, he'd come back. Just like he'd planned for years, he would come back for her.

And the time had finally come.


	4. Chapter 4

_Alright, Hermione. You've got this. You've just got to play it cool._

Hermione found herself chanting encouraging mantras to herself on her journey to work that next morning—frankly a weak attempt to shake the questionable mood that Malfoy had set upon her. She'd gotten home to flat the previous night a bit more shaken than she'd have liked to admit, her book and wine forgotten. She had woken up the next morning recalling slivers of a broken dream in which bright, daunting gray eyes had haunted her.

What had happened with him, it was… well, she wasn't sure _what_ it was.

Hermione was most certainly embarrassed about her behavior, and scolded herself for reacting so poorly. She was disappointed in herself for allowing him to have such a hold on her, and even found herself convinced that telling Ginny—or anyone, for that matter—about it would be a shameful experience.

Her best course of action would be to continue on with her life as if nothing happened and decidedly ignore him—which, of course, would prove to be a bit of a challenge considering he worked just next door now. She could at least try to sustain some optimism.

So she'd just have to be a bit more careful sneaking in and out of her office now. And maybe in Diagon Alley in general. Or just in life. Okay, sure. That was fine.

She thankfully made it into S.P.E.W. Malfoy-free (she chose to ignore the fact she'd gotten up rather early that morning just to make sure of it) and made her way to her office towards the back of the small building, her sensible-but-cute heels—that Ginny had convinced her to splurge on—clicking across the tile floor.

Naturally, since she had arrived so early, the rest of her S.P.E.W. team would be showing within an hour or more. They were a team of only five, including herself, and Hermione was undeniably grateful for them, even if they were quite small in numbers. They were all former-Hogwarts students, some of whom were a bit younger than her, and she felt a surge of pride for them working so hard despite being unbelievably understaffed and underpaid.

It would break her heart to ever admit to them that S.P.E.W. and all of their hard work was slowly crumbling away to nothing.

Glad to at least have an early start, Hermione sank down into her plush chair at her desk and began her day's work.

* * *

12:30 again. Her lunch break. Right. Well. Was food worth it, really?

As if right on cue, her stomach growled conspicuously. Ugh, she really should've planned this out better, brought a packed lunch or something, to avoid a Malfoy-related incident if she ventured out. Maybe Ginny would come by again if she flooed her? But Hermione knew she was a terrible liar and Ginny was uncannily good at sensing when something was fishy (frankly a recipe for disaster if Hermione had vowed to herself not to mention the encounter to anyone).

She sighed, supposing she could just skip lunch for the day, and bent down to grab a file from one of the low cabinets her desk.

Suddenly, she heard the sound of her door swing open, and—paranoid thoughts trained on Malfoy—she jerked quite ungracefully, banging the top of her head on the corner of her desk.

"Ow," Hermione whined quietly, one hand clutched on her folder, the other on the already-rising bump on her skull.

She heard a laugh. "A bit jumpy today, are we?"

"Theo!" she exclaimed, happily surprised, as she stood up straight again. "What are you doing here?"

Theodore Nott had been quite an unexpected presence in her life for the past year; they'd bumped into each other at Gringotts and, while not entirely friends at Hogwarts (he was pretty much invisible to her as far as she could remember) he'd recognized her and promptly introduced himself. He'd rather grown on her after the enumerable times they'd bumped into each other around Diagon Alley and, somehow, his downright charming persona had won her over. He was so un-Slytherin-like it daunted her how he'd managed to get in with that conniving crowd in the first place.

"I hope I'm not interrupting?" He flashed her a brilliant smile, holding up two coffees and what appeared to be a box of breakfast pastries. "I figured you might want a pick-me-up."

"You're just in perfect time, actually." She smiled and hurriedly welcomed him in, grateful for her unforeseen visitor.

Theo was quite beautiful, really, with ruffled, dark brown hair and contrastingly fair skin. He was tall and a bit lanky, and while he was a bit broody at times, he was surprisingly sweet at others. She constantly forced herself to reel her thoughts of him in; she was sure he didn't see her that way. But she couldn't seem to help herself from enjoying his company anyways.

"Is it just me," Theo began, mid-bite of a blueberry scone after he'd sat down and as Hermione sipped on her sweetened coffee, "or are you a bit more frazzled than normal?"

Hermione laughed. It felt good. "Is the hair a dead-giveaway?" She patted at her unruly mane; with how stressful life had been lately, she'd had less and less time to attempt to manage it.

"Nah, it always looks like that." He grinned at her good-naturedly as she chuckled and rolled her eyes at him. "This wouldn't have anything to do with the appearance of a certain blonde-haired, rather-frightening-entrepreneur-neighbor, would it?" he asked lightly, raising his eyebrows at her and taking another bite of his scone.

Hermione felt her face ashen, her cup of coffee frozen mid-air. "Why would you think that?"

This time, Theo laughed at her. "I'm just joking, you know." She only relaxed just slightly. "I doubt he'll show his face around here much, anyways. He's got too much on his hands."

"You haven't spoken to him recently, have you?" She frowned just slightly, attempting to maintain a neutral expression and tone. The cup of coffee no longer felt warm in her hands. "I mean, I know you guys were friends back at Hogwarts…" It felt strange to talk about this with him, when life had already moved on, when their school days felt so deep in the past.

It was a grim reminder of how different they'd all been, how different they still were now.

Theo looked down, his face more solemn than before. "No, not recently. He's pretty tied down with this line of work and all. Rather like you." A smile warmed his features once more. Hermione no longer wanted to talk about Malfoy, or anything stressful or of immediate importance. Theo was supposed to be her happy distraction, but he pressed on. "_You_ haven't spoken to him either, I'd hope?"

Nonetheless, Theo was neither stupid nor oblivious; he was well aware of their temperamental history.

"No," Hermione squeaked too quickly, most likely giving herself away with her wide eyes and hasty response. He stared intently at her for just a moment too long, and she quickly grabbed a sticky, sugary pastry to avoid his all-too-knowing gaze. He left the subject alone.

"What is that you're working on today?" He asked lightly instead, continuing on with their conversation as if the Malfoy-topic hadn't been broached. She was rather thankful, and even a little happy to teeter on about her project this week involving helping newly-freed elves into safer and happier environments.

Theo was a good listener and didn't interrupt her once during her long tangent, nor did he once appear to doze off or even look bored—something Ron had failed at consistently before they'd broken up—and she rather liked that about him.

They talked for almost an hour before Hermione decided she'd practically chatted his ears off and she needed to get back to work, as did he. She thanked him for visiting her and, as always, invited him back anytime. As always, he promised he would.

* * *

It had only been a few minutes after Theo had left, and Hermione was tossing her now-empty cup of coffee out when she heard her office door open again. She smiled. "Forget something, Th—?"

Both her train of thought and her smile were wiped away in an instant. Instead of the familiar brown she'd been expecting, gray eyes were now boring into hers.

"Malfoy," she whispered, just a pitch away form inaudible, shocked at his tall stature standing casually in her door frame. "Who let you in here?"

His signature smirk graced his all-too-perfect features as he took in her deer-in-headlights expression, and closed the door behind him as he sauntered into her tiny office as if he'd done it a million times before. She'd never realized how small her space was it until his presence was in it, surrounding her wholly.

"I let myself in," he answered casually, as if it wasn't something terribly out of the ordinary. He walked towards her desk, picking up her name plaque with his long, pale fingers. _Hermione Jean Granger. _His eyes read over it carefully, as if he'd never seen her name before. She watched, still relatively wide-eyed and awed at his being there, in her personal and (practically) sacred area of (almost) living.

Her hand went to her back pocket instinctively and felt for her wand. She should've known his deft eyes would catch the movement. "No need for that, Granger." He placed the plaque back down and looked at her, and somehow it felt like he was still towering above her—despite the large desk between them.

Something about his demeanor, something about _him, _made her wandless hand drop back down to her side. "But… what are you doing here?" Hermione felt a sort of whiplash from the stark difference between the two Slytherins that had been in that very room within a matter of minutes.

"Don't look so stricken, Granger." He had the nerve to look a little amused, leaning in towards her like he seemed to enjoy doing. "I'm not here to harm you." She waited for the _yet_, but it never came.

Hermione scoffed and folded her arms. "That's hard to believe."

"I've actually got a proposition for you."

"A proposition? Of what sorts?" she asked, incredulous not even beginning to cover it.

"You'll just have to find out, won't you?" He smirked at her, borderline _suggestive_. Hermione felt herself unwillingly flush. He was Malfoy, but he was still undeniably attractive. And she hated herself for thinking that. "The Three Broomsticks. Tomorrow. This time." He began slowly backing out of her office.

"And what makes you think I'll show up?" she called out after him, practically resisting the urge to throw her hands in the air in disbelief.

He looked around her excruciatingly small workspace, at her pile of overflowing paperwork on her desk, and back up at her tired expression—as if that answered it all.

His serious gray eyes locked with hers. "Because you need my help."

He closed the door behind him and left before she could protest.


End file.
